Young Sherlock
by ADogCalledBambi
Summary: Though initially taking place a year after The Great Game episode, this focuses on the young Sherlock Holmes from age 20 to present.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes suddenly awoke in a pool of his own cold sweat, something very uncommon for him. He checked his pulse: his heart was beating fast. He looked down at his shirt; it was damp around the neck collar and the dampness tapered down towards his navel. His hair stuck to the back of his neck, indicating he had been sleeping in the perspiration for quite awhile. There were many explanations for this: andropause, menopause and illness. Sherlock quickly dispelled these, considering he was still a young _man_ and was perfectly healthy. Which only lead to one plausible diagnosis: a nightmare.

He racked his brain for remnants of his dream, though he knew he would never get dream fully back. There was John Watson, a bomb, sniper scopes and Moriarty. He had been wrong, it wasn't a nightmare, it was a memory. Sherlock shook his head and dismissed the memory. It was a year ago, there was no sense in having nightmares now. He stepped into the shower and rubbed his eyes. The corners of his eyes stung from the sharp and painful tears that had dried while he slept. Crying, too, was uncommon for him. But, again he dismissed it.

Sherlock stepped out of the shower and toweled off, leaving the towel carelessly on the floor. He traipsed into his bedroom and changed into a slim black suit with a pastel blue collared dress shirt. It complemented his eyes, someone once told him. He returned to the bathroom where he looked into the mirror. His dark wavy hair had a mind it's own, it parted slightly to right and curled over his ears. He gave up years ago trying to style it, he figured it looked fine the way it was.

Sherlock stared at his bed with intensity, his arms crossed across his narrow chest.

"I'm not sleeping on those sheets ever again" he said to himself as he stripped his beds of sheets, throwing them to the left of his bed, a seemingly empty and unused area. As he grabbed a new set of sheets from the linen closet, in vain, he began to think that maybe stripping his sheets would strip his mind of the memories of that night, the night where he almost got him and his best friend killed.

It wasn't the thought of the danger that haunted Sherlock—that was a customary thing for John and him—it was the thought that his best friend, his only friend, was a hostage in a situation that had nothing to do with him. He couldn't imagine living in 221B without Dr. Watson. He couldn't imagine life without Dr. Watson, period.

John and him were friends, just friends, to the chagrin of others who viewed them as a "complementary couple". John had Sarah, who, whether or not Sherlock wanted to admit it, was a wonderful match for John. However, that didn't keep Sherlock from genuinely caring for his friend and wanting to protect him. But it also didn't hinder Sherlock's innate needs. Sherlock wanted companionship that friendship couldn't supply him. Someone who could suffice his brain and rid the boredom he suffered from when the police, for once, could handle a case. Sherlock Holmes wanted a woman-yes, a woman-in his life. John's happiness with Sarah inspired Sherlock's own needs for female companionship, though he would never admit it. Though not against women in any sense, Sherlock lacked a sort of compassion for them. He believed the womanly mind to be inscrutable as he often misinterpreted them. Even with the most brilliant mind on the planet, Sherlock Holmes couldn't decipher the mind of women. Women weren't his area of expertise and he was one to admit this. However, this inability to understand them drew Sherlock in. If there was one thing Sherlock loved it was surprises, and women were full of them.


	2. Chapter 2

The door read 221B and it sat on side of Baker Street, neatly tucked between other buildings. From the facade of the building, you'd hardly expect men-let alone two men-would reside in it's upper floor, but that was the case at 221B Baker Street. Two figures approached the door nervously and stood there cautiously. A man with a military haircut stood to the left as a woman with chestnut brown hair stood close to his right, shuffling in the chilly London air.

"Well, aren't you are you going to open it?" The woman asked with a smirk, tilting her head up to meet the eyes of the man. He looked down and smiled back at her, as he reached into his left pocket for his key.

He let her in first and slowly, but very quietly, closed the door behind him. They exchanged smiles as he motioned the woman upstairs. They crept up the stairs to his room in the flat, careful to to not awaken his flat mate. The woman entered the flat first while the man stood at the top of the stairs, peering into the dimly lit living area of the flat. He sighed a sigh of relief and proceeded to enter his room when he heard the infamous sound of a cockblock.

"John?"

John rolled his eyes.

"Stay here, Sarah." He breathed to Sarah, as he motioned her into his room and shut the door behind her.

John retreated to the top of the stairs and peered down; there stood a man in a long black trench coat accessorized by a worn navy scarf.

"_You've got to be kidding me._" he thought to himself.

"Yes?" He sarcastically asked.

"I texted you four times." The man said, leisurely walking up the stairs, loosening his scarf.

John shifted his eyes and lowered his voice.

"I was on a date, Sherlock."

"A date?" Sherlock asked, as if incredulous to the idea.

"Yes, a date. As in you go to the cinema, you eat popping corn, drink cola, and enjoy the company of someone you like romantically."

"John?" Sarah asked, peeking into the living area at Sherlock and John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mumbled something inaudible and turned his back to John, retreating to the couch and grabbing a book off the shelf.

"I'll be there in a minute, I promise." John said sweetly to Sherlock, gently kissing Sarah's forehead.

"You carry-on with your…date. A generic end to a generic night." Sherlock opened the book and began to read, signifying the end to his side of the conversation.

"You're a child." John retorted,

John joined Sarah in his bedroom, ending the discussion with the thud of his bedroom door.

Sherlock put down the book and took off his trench coat, throwing it over the arm chair carelessly. He opened his laptop and immediately opened his website, The Science of Deduction. He had received a personal message earlier in the day that he hadn't had the chance to read in privacy. It read:

_Sherlock Holmes,_

_Long time, no see. I hope life after uni has been well for you. I hear from Sebastian Wilkes you are a consulting detective, an original role for you. Congratulations on the originality, I know how bored you get with reprisals. We should meet up together sometime soon, when you aren't playing consulting detective._

_Best,_

_Katherine Dean._

It had been five years since Katherine Dean made the decision to walk out of Sherlock's life. They had been an item at uni, Sherlock being the brilliant outcast and Katherine being the beautiful girl who outsmarted Sherlock daily. Life with her was never boring for Sherlock, something he could never say about any other companion he had. As Sherlock developed more of his keen abilities of problem solving and began to intrude on police investigations, Katherine came to the realization that Sherlock Holmes was a dangerous man to be acquainted with. She had been his first love, his only love and it killed him to know that she rejected his proposal of marriage and quickly walked away from his life, only to expect to waltz back.

Initially speechless, Sherlock managed to type the words "Tuesday, 5PM. Dinner to be discussed."

And, oddly, Sherlock felt uneasy about it.


End file.
